Glitter
by Unfortunate Fates
Summary: Kurt and Blaine were supposed to be forever, so fights like this are just…hiccups. Right?


**a/n: hello! i finally wrote something slightly normal, not au, and klaine (all at the same time)! it's been awhile. anyways, I adore angst and have been craving it lately, so i thought 'hey, why don't i write a fight scene?' which evolved into this :) endless thanks to Andrea (meepiemeep on tumblr) for beta-ing, you're an angel. Enjoy (or don't, whichever is fine).**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**...**

It doesn't take much to anger Kurt Hummel.

No, that's wrong. It takes something important to anger Kurt Hummel. It just doesn't take much for him to explode once he gets to that point. Some, of course, know this better than others, but Blaine Anderson isn't sure he was prepared in the least for what happened during their first real fight. Sure, they'd gotten sad and disappointed and almost broken up before, but that's worth nothing compared to their state at the moment.

They've never gotten to full-fledged shouting matches, arms waving and voices cutting and comments slicing through their exteriors, movie-bright tears and a dull dull sky sitting above their heads. They'd never gotten to insults that dug deep beneath their skin. They'd never gotten to _this_.

Because fifteen minutes in and Blaine makes the mistake of mentioning how it's not like Kurt has been trying to work this out either, only to get the reply of: "Well… what if I've been trying to let you down easy? I'm moving to New York, so you need to get used to the idea, and right now you're feeling a lot like dead weight!"

To which Blaine has to reply with something like: "Are you kidding me?"

To which Kurt shoots back something like, though he isn't sure exactly because it all feels like a blur: "What if I'm not? It's not like anyone else has tried to hold on to you for this long anyways. You can ask your family about that!"

And Blaine suddenly freezes, because he must've heard wrong. He didn't trust this boy with his entire heart to have it be thrown back into his face. "You don't mean that," he says, voice low and dangerous.

But instead of agreeing the way he should, something lights up in Kurt's eyes, something ugly and mean and bright, and he when asks, "What, scared of the truth?" Blaine can barely recognize him.

And because he has made it a point in the last few years to never let someone step all over him again, he has to say, "Not as scared as you." And there are a million things he wants to continue with but not once did he think he'd say, "You're a coward!" Yet the words tumble from his lips as if they have lives of their own.

"You're a hypocrite!" comes the fiery retort, and Blaine has had it. They're all up in each others' faces by now, standing in the Hummel's backyard under the tree that they'd carved their initials into, and it's all too much so he turns around and storms off, not quite quickly enough, though, to muffle Kurt's, "Fine then! Leave! Problems don't exist if we pretend they're not there, right?"

He can't even bring himself to answer before he's in the car, hands shaking with barely contained rage. When he gets home he can't even _look_ at his mom sitting in the living room with her crochet on her lap because he's frustrated and maybe Kurt was actually right.

He spends the night seething, replaying and replaying and replaying in his head until he's so tired of it that his eyes droop of their own accord, head falling onto his pillow and the first bits of regret and sorrow dripping into his veins three hours past midnight.

…

He wakes up an hour later and finds he can't get back to sleep, so he trudges downstairs for a glass of water to clear his thoughts. It doesn't work, of course (_of course)_, so instead he sits at the dining room table until sunlight creeps through the windows and wonders if he has a boyfriend.

…

He doesn't go to school the next day because he got no sleep and he has a migraine and he's exhausted (and yes, those are the real reasons, leave him alone). His phone is sitting at the bottom of the third drawer of his nightstand, set to vibrate and wrapped in socks because it's Cooper's old phone and he doesn't know how to turn it off so this is the next best thing. There's a slowly growing pile of tissues sitting on his bed where he'd carelessly thrown them, but this pity party won't last long. It can't. He's Blaine Anderson, and Blaine Anderson is never beaten down for long. He's supposed to fight. He's supposed to recover. He's supposed to be the standard-bearer, even if he never wanted to be.

He knows how to smile and nod, okay? He's been to enough damn charity benefits to know how to fake interest and how to fake joy and how to fake a million other emotions because he's Blaine Anderson and he has plenty of practice.

He hears an insistent buzzing to his left and rolls over, stuffing his head in his pillow until it disappears and he's allowed to be alone again. There are so many emotions brewing under his sadness that he can't even begin to name them all. There's regret and loathing and anger and pain and shock, and he can't deal with this right now, he can't, because every time his phone rings he's terrified to check it, because if it's Kurt his heart will break, and if it isn't Kurt his heart will break.

Finally, he's had enough of this lying in bed doing nothing. He's never been good at it anyways, if he's being honest, and when he gets up his eyes are puffy and his head is stuffed with cotton but even that is better than nothing, so he counts it as progress and decides he feels better even as strings of uncertainty cloud his mind.

…

The next day is Saturday and he can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse.

Wes texts him something along the lines of _just snagged a hot date!_

And instead of replying immediately with something scathing or teasing or at least a little bit humorous, he turns around, mouth already curving into a smile, to tell Kurt. Who isn't there. Because of their fight.

He doesn't even know what they are anymore. It's going to kill him slowly. It _is_ killing him slowly, so he braces himself and pulls out his phone.

14 missed calls, 10 text messages, and nothing at all from Kurt. He holds 2 for speed-dial and his heart drops to his stomach when he realizes that the other boy's phone is off entirely, whether it be from lack of charge (less likely) or of his own volition (more likely).

_Don't bother leaving a message _is all he gets (he changed his voicemail, he's been on his phone, he's used his phone and _not to call Blaine_) before he hears the tell-tale beep, and Kurt's voice sounds rougher than he's ever heard it, rougher than all of the drama with Karofsky and the trouble around Valentine's Day and even the disaster of the Texter-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless. Never has Blaine heard Kurt sound so wrecked, but he can't be sure that his imagination isn't playing tricks on him so he calls again, and again, and again, each time worse than the last until there are tears in his eyes that he hadn't expected, glittering like dewdrops but not falling. They haven't fallen for over a year.

And when the first one starts a path down his cheek, he shuts his eyes, hot shame filling him. It's at this point of course, that he hears a knock on his door.

"Guess who's back?" asks Cooper, flinging it open. He's never been good at subtlety, having the habits of showmanship instilled in him at an early age by their mother. Slamming doors and impromptu belting and an alarming lack of privacy have been constants in the Anderson house since before Blaine can remember, but they've never been more unwelcome, because once Cooper sees his face Blaine just _knows_ he'll be taunted for his weakness or joked with or some other form of stupidity that is decidedly not comfort.

Which is why he's shocked to hear, "What's wrong, buddy?"

His throat is choked up in the way that means he's incapable of speech, so he just shakes head and sniffles pathetically. Today, apparently, is a day of surprises, because Cooper walks over and hugs him, broad chest tight arms _safe_, and Blaine basically loses it right there, tears soaking hot into his brother's shirt before he's even said a proper hello, just hours away from the most terrifying thing he'll ever know.

"Hey, sh, it's fine," murmurs Cooper, sounding a little more than surprised. "What the _hell_ happened? You're not hurt, are you?" he asks, suddenly a lot more careful holding the smaller boy.

After a sad approximation of a shake of his head, he manages to stutter out, "'m fine." Another full-body shudder betrays him, but he swears he's trying to relax.

"You don't look fine. What happened?"

It's an indeterminable amount of time before Blaine's breaths slow down and he stops shaking. He's fine. He's fine. He's nearly seventeen and he's _fine_. "Kurt and I fought. Badly. He's going to New York and I'm staying here for my senior year, and everything was fine until I brought it up again. It just got ugly from there."

"Why don't you talk to him, then?"

Right. Because clearly, it's that easy. "Coop, you didn't hear some of the things I _said_. I can't just go to him and expect everything to be fine. I wouldn't forgive me if I was him, so why should _he?"_

He fails to mention the failed phone call because it doesn't seem significant. Just another failure. Just another hatch mark burned deep into the wood.

"Listen," Cooper says, and then falls silent for a moment. "Do you _want_ to break up with him?"

"No, god no," comes tumbling out of his mouth before he can reign it in. The admission is too raw for his liking, but so is the entire situation.

For once, his brother leaves the words unsaid (because Cooper, while oftentimes a creature of habit, has never been predictable), and Blaine gets up, runs to the bathroom, splashes his face with cold water until it's flushed but decidedly less puffy, yanks a jacket from his closet, grabs his keys, and is out the door in two minutes flat, on his way to try to fix something that really shouldn't have broken in the first place.

…

When he begins knocking on the door, he finds he can't stop, and so when Burt opens the door he nearly punches the older man in the face. Burt says something like _steady there, kid,_ but the twinkle in his eye is missing.

"Is Kurt home?" he asks, and those always have to be the first words with this man, don't they? Every time he comes here, he says the same thing, and Burt nods, and that's the end of it.

"He's in his room," Burt finally mutters, tired, and Blaine almost trips in his haste to get up there, taking the stairs two at a time and nearly plowing headfirst into a very confused Finn Hudson.

He scratches his head in that lumbering way of his and states very officially that Kurt "isn't feeling well," and that maybe Blaine should "come back later."

"I need to talk to him," he replies quickly, desperately.

Finn's brows furrow for a moment and he raises a hand to his temple as if this is an incredibly hard decision. "I don't know if that's a good idea," he finally says slowly, and Blaine is _thisclose_ to just snapping.

"You're not his bodyguard," he grits out.

"You're not his boyfriend anymore."

And that's it. "What the hell do you know about our relationship? We never broke up, and I'd really like the chance to go fix things with your stepbrother. I'm sorry you don't approve or something, but no one asked for your permission!"

Which is, apparently, enough to drag Kurt out of his room and into the stairwell. He's standing, not five yards from Blaine, mouth open in shock. There are bags under his eyes, reddened by where he must've been crying, rimmed with exhaustion and sadness and the intricacies of stubbornness Blaine knows are there. His hair is rumpled and his lips are dark and his skin is blotchy; he's in sweatpants and a ratty old shirt and he's _beautiful._

So it only makes sense that Blaine would throw himself at him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist and face buried in his shoulder. For one terrifying moment, Kurt is still as stone, but within seconds he's reciprocating, holding onto Blaine like he's not afraid of breaking him, and Finn must back away at some point because Blaine vaguely registers his absence (and smugly so).

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he murmurs, right into Kurt's shirt, and receives the aghast reply of '_I'm_ sorry," along with a half-disbelieving, entirely mirthless laugh.

"You're here," breathes Kurt, and grabs at Blaine's shoulders, holding him an arms' length away.

"I am," is all he can think of to say, eyes boring into Kurt's, scanning his face, drinking in every detail because he can.

"We're going to have to talk about this," Kurt points out, but there's a lack of excitement that leads Blaine to say, "later," and shut him up with a kiss.

With eyes shut, the rain pattering on the window sounds exactly like applause.

...

**Reviews are lovely :)**

**Also, if you'd like to talk to me about this fic, another fic, or anything, really, get in touch with me through PMs or on tumblr (where I'm abrokenkindofperfect). I love talking to readers. Really. **

**Stay classy, kids - xoxo nikki**


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